


binary stars

by khlassique



Category: Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-31
Updated: 2016-01-31
Packaged: 2018-05-17 11:53:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5868391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/khlassique/pseuds/khlassique
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lives brushing against each other in small moments.</p>
            </blockquote>





	binary stars

**Author's Note:**

> "If, on the contrary, two stars should really be situated very near each other, and at the same time so far insulated as not to be materially affected by the attractions of neighbouring stars, they will then compose a separate system, and remain united by the bond of their own mutual gravitation towards each other." (William Herschel, 1802)

He imagines his mother, lines softening her face. That is what he remembers, but the years could have deepened them. _You’re not the same man you were before._

 

_Before what, Mother?_

 

The arrest? The army? Her smile?

 

There are so many moments at which _after_ began, through his fingers as clumps of colony dirt, lasting longer than the chill in his bones. Nature offers consistency; the stars will cycle through their positions, whether he is there to witness the celestial dance or not. This fact alone was a comfort in the time of his imprisonment. Yet, it turned into less than imprisonment; it was baseness, for his captors took even the stars from him.

 

He cannot articulate how that broke him, to be denied such a thing. Not to his mother. She has always had the stars, even when there was little else.

 

With a sway to which he was still unaccustomed, Hewlett stood from his writing desk, rolling back his shoulders. It was late now, and the darkness seemed even more so from the hours he had spent staring at his half-finished letter, quill hanging between his fingers. A drip of ink on the middle of the page went unnoticed, overwritten with all of the words he can no longer say. The paper burns as any other paper does, sending up a flare of light from fireplace. A waste, to burn unused paper, but he can’t bear to leave those lies in existence. He will try again tomorrow, and will not think of telling her about the dread he feels sometimes, deep enough to wake him, or the pain in toes that do not belong to him any more.

 

He is in the army. His mother worries about him enough for that alone.

 

The cloak settles heavily on his shoulders, and his boot heels sink into the hallway carpeting before the blessed bite of spring night air stings his lungs. He nods to the guards posted outside Whitehall, though he knows that nothing would stop Simcoe should he decide to attack the place. Still, it is a false comfort, and Hewlett welcomes some sense of control.

 

Instead of uncovering his telescope, he leans against a tree nearby, staring into the water. The moon is on the cusp of full, dimming the starlight. William had written him recently of star pairs, circling the same point and bound by gravity. He had little proof yet, and was constructing a better telescope, but Hewlett still found it fascinating, the concept of such pairs which were unable to separate without mutual detriment. It was in this way he viewed the colonies and crown, their point of gravity an understood contract of reciprocation.

 

How could these rebels claim the crown did not care when it was the king’s duty to provide for them, and they, in turn, would provide for the king. Their taxes paid for protection against the same French they now welcomed, speak nothing of the years of circumventing due taxes for sugar and indigo. It was enough to make him wish to just give the damned rebels their precious freedom, and see the consequences of ideals.

 

A snap of a twig, and Hewlett jumps, turning as he hears a feminine ‘ _oh_ ’. It is not a figure in green, but Anna Strong.

 

“Edmund, I did not realize you would be out.” Her voice rolls over his name, a lilt and a roughness that drags a finger down the top of his spine. “Do you not look for the stars? It seems a good night for it.”

 

“Anna.” He clears his throat, ignoring the warmth in his cheeks. As flustered as a schoolboy for the first time in years. “I merely felt the need to stretch my legs before retiring for the evening. I presume you seek to do the same?” _Though why, with that beast roaming Setauket?_

 

“Oh- yes. It is late enough that… I would not have to see Richard, when I returned.”

 

“Ah.” Hewlett had tried to defend Anna’s presence at Whitehall to Richard, to ask him to behave appropriately no matter the sins of her family so that she would not suffer Simcoe’s presence, but too often it came dangerously close to admitting his feelings for her extended beyond common courtesies. So Anna had avoided Richard as gracefully as she could, though this meant that she avoided Hewlett as well most evenings. He made an effort to come to the tavern, to fetch an item from the room she was sitting in, lives brushing against each other in small moments. “Would you wish for me to speak with him?” _Again?_

 

“I have been living with his ill will for many years. Your speaking to him will change nothing.” A small smile, forlorn, and a flare of desire to drag a thumb along the curve. “There is little he can say that is worse than what has already been said, but I thank you for your concern.”

 

“As I have said before, I would hope you could consider me a friend, and as a friend it is my duty to assist you in any way you should wish.”

 

“I do consider you a friend, Edmund, possibly-“ She stops, a word dying in her mouth, and hope kicks up in his ribs.

 

“Possibly what, Anna?” Reckless, dangerous to ask that question with her name as such, a flouting of social norms. She is still married, despite the effective divorce of ideals, but it is just them, and the water, and the stars. 

 

Her voice goes soft. “Possibly the only true friend I have, at this time.” Hope again, and something else, a thrill that compels him to step forward to close the space between them to an arm’s length.

 

“That is an honor I hold sacred, then, Miss Strong.” He clears his throat, tamps down the lightness that threatens to lift him clear off the ground, and offers his arm. “And, as your friend, I will see you back to Whitehall safely.”

 

She nods, and takes the proffered arm, and so they retire back to their temporary home, the heat of her hand a brand through his shirtsleeve that he feels even after she parts from him in the entrance hall.

 

“Thank you, Edmund. I will see you in the morning.” He smiles, nods, agrees. And then, as if she’s decided something, she places a hand on his cheek, thumb brushing below his eye for such a brief moment that he does not know if he somehow will wake at his desk, the whole thing a dream. It is not until she has alighted up the stairs that he feels safe enough to put a hand to his cheek. 

 

It never occurs to him to wonder why she came through the woods, off the path.

**Author's Note:**

> I fudged the timeline of when Herschel was developing/proving his theory of binary stars, but I do love a good metaphor, so.


End file.
